Page 29 of Uprising

I peer up and continue cutting the can open. I want him to squirm, to feel uncomfortable.

Clearing his throat, he raises his chin. “I just—well, I want to apologize for the, uh, the bathroom. It wasn’t very adult-like of me to just assume you were coming in there to kill me. I’m on edge, and well, I imagine you are too.” He rambles on.

Tilting my head to the side, my eyes travel down from his eyes to his mouth as he speaks.

“Anyways, like I said, I’m sorry for my actions, and for staring at your, uh…” Noah's voice trails off, suddenly unable to look at me.

“My cock,” I finished for him.

Noah chokes, breaking out in a coughing fit. I wait until he finally exhales loudly, running a hand down his face.

“Yes, I supposethat. I’m sorry, I’ll get better at controlling myself.”

“Good.”

We fall into an awkward silence, Noah glancing around the dimly lit room, his eyes casually stopping on me every few seconds. By the fourth round of shy looks and huffs aimed towards me, I've had enough.

“Jesus fuck, just sit down,” I wave a hand at the desk. “Eat.” Sliding over the SpaghettiOs, I reach into my bag and pull another can out.

“Uh, thank you.” Noah gives a smile before jumping up onto the desk and grabbing the can. Doing the same thing I did with the can before, I stab my knife into it, working it around.

“Fuck, I forgot how good these taste.” Noah groans around a mouthful. His eyelashes flutter as he licks his upper lip clean of the red sauce. I thought my cock had deflated, but for some reason around Noah it’s always half hard. Even if I try to ignore that part of myself, it slips through around him.

Fuck. I’m a professional. I’ve killed hundreds of men and around a dozen women. I can handle one twink. Each day is just another day closer to reaching the cabin and one day closer to him being off on his own.

We both fall into silence as we eat. While I keep my eyes focused on the doors, I can feel Noah staring at me. He tries to appear innocent, but the way he fidgets just sitting tells me something else is on his mind. And I have a feeling it has something to do with the fact he has a bulge in his pants.

“So, uh, tell me about yourself?” Noah's voice shakes as he asks.

Peering over at him, a smile tugs at my lips at how nervous he is. Thankfully I have the mask over the bottom half of my face so that he can’t see it. I’m not sure what I would do if he caught me smiling.

“How old are you?” He asks more firmly this time.

“Twenty-four or five.”

His brows pull together in confusion. “You don’t know how old you are?”

“I’m not even sure what day it is, so how can I be sure I didn’t turn another age?”

“That’s a weird way of putting it.” Noah pushes the can over, stretching his legs out. “I’m twenty then, or twenty-one, I suppose.”

I grunt, not caring how old he is. Or trying not to care. I don’t want to care about Noah, but he’s like a dog with a bone. Always yapping, always looking for attention.

“Was your twenty-first fun?” Noah asks. I try to pick apart his question, wondering why he would want to know. He's probably searching for some humility, given the small amount that's left in this world. I should tell him to fuck off, but like I said, a dog with a bone.

“It was like most men want, the usual.” I shrug, not quite sure how to navigate talking normally with him.

The only guys I'm used to shit-talking with was Ghost and Viper. One of them is gone, and the other, well, hopefully he's found that girl he was obsessed with. I was never one who dealt with grief. People die; it’s life. You live, and then you die.

It’s the same motto I’ve gone by since before I became a killer. There’s always going to be someone bigger and better than you. You just have to know when to pick your battles and when it’s time to turn a blind eye.

“You have to give me more than just that. You see, some men want what some men don’t,” he raises a brow, beckoning me to his calling. Of course, Noah wants all the details he can get. The boy had barely lived before zombies rose up and began eating everyone.

“A friend, Wyck, he uh, we went to a bar and I probably had too much to drink. I don’t remember most of it to be honest with you.”

Thinking back to the bar, I’m hit with the memories of the Ghost—Wyck—handing me drink after drink. We had a difficult job, one that I will always remember and undoubtedly regret for the rest of my life. He helped me drown it out for a night, letting me forget the horrors of what I’ve done. Flashes of their screams replace the memories of what Wyck was trying to do for me.

“Reed?” Noah's voice, like an angel's, calls me back. “Are you okay? You look a little, uh… I would offer you a drink, but all we have is water.”

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